


I want your arms

by MademoiselledeRomance



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5575813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MademoiselledeRomance/pseuds/MademoiselledeRomance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the same story than "How can I be alive ?". I've just translated it in English.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I want your arms

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [How can I be alive ?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5561092) by [MademoiselledeRomance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MademoiselledeRomance/pseuds/MademoiselledeRomance). 



> So this is the translation. I hope you will not find too much mistakes. I'm soory, please be indulgent ;) I hope you will enjoy it :)

\- Mother !, called the young boy.  
The young woman turned.

\- What's wrong, Hippolytus ?, she asked with a soft voice.

 

The little boy looked at his mother with a heavy heart. He never saw her completely happy. Soft and beautiful, courageous and determined, yes, of course she was. Sublime, even. A Madonna we hardly dared to touch. Still, the young Hippolytus never had seen flames of happiness dancing in her green eyes. On the contrary. It was a glimmer of infinite sadness that he discerned in it.

 

And yet he knew that she had not always been so. Vanozza, her grandmother, had told him when she came to visit a few months earlier.

\- Why is Mom sad?

The question was come, like this, instinctively. Vanozza had arrived three days earlier. He had never seen before, but he already loved her. He knew that her journey would be short, because his father didn't like her a lot. Why ? It was a woman already old, and kind. He had heard the whispers of the maidservants. She was an ancient Roman whore. His grandmother, a whore? He, the son of the Duke d'Este? Certainly not. He knew very well that his grandfather had been Pope Alexander VI, or Rodrigo Borgia. They almost never spoke of this grandfather, or so with a kind of awe in his voice.

Well, it's true, a clergyman could not take wives. So, obviously, her grandmother was the mistress, not the wife of his grandfather. It was bad enough dishonorable. Yes, but that does not necessarily means that she was a whore!

It was too complicated, anyway. And he did not want to understand.

\- Your mother is not sad, Vanozza had simply replied, raising an eyebrow.

This little boy intrigued her. He was handsome. Beautiful. "He looks like his maternal uncle," she thought, both amused and distressed.

They found themselves in the same room by chance. Library. The favorite place of Hippolytus. He had hoped to cross her.

\- Yes, my mother is sad !, he argued. You know that, madam. You must tell me why.

She smiled. Madam. He was still unable to call her "grandmother", but it was normal, he barely knew her. Also, he was of royal blood. This required him to follow certain conventions.

She thought of her daughter, the mother of Hippolytus. She had been so happy to find her. And despite what she had said to his grandson, she too had noticed the eyes of the young woman. This looks so tired of everything. It broke her heart. Her daughter had been so happy before. Even when she had been the victim of Giovanni Sforza, and she had lost her lover, the little spark of gaiety had survived.

 

She felt compelled to respond to Hippolyte. After all, why did he not deserve an answer?

\- Your mother is sad and bitter, boy. Annihilated.

\- But why ?, he had strongly asked. Since my birth she is! This is not a state in which she is for a few months ... Has she always been so?

\- Slowly !, whispered Vanozza. Why ? This, she will tell you herself one day, if she desired. All I can reveal to you is that this is the death of someone very dear to her heart that caused this reduction.

Hippolyte thought. The death of whom? It was normal to lose loved ones. It was sad, and this pain was visible a few months at most. After we learned to forget. To keep within ourself, this pain.

His mother was painful, that, he had seen. But she was also the goodness incarnate, always soft and warm with him and his siblings. She was noble, certainly; cultured and literate beyond the possible. She knew how to pretend to be cheerful: others saw nothing. But he deeply loved his mother. And, observing her, he saw... Her smile did not go up to her eyes still sad.

 

Hippolyte said nothing. Vanozza guessed his questions. But it better not be answered. But she could reassure him.

\- Your mother was not always like that, 'she said suddenly. She was even a real ray of sunshine in the past, there was not so long elsewhere.

 

She looked at the boy, stared at him intently. Sometimes it seemed to her to have lived several lives. She remembered very well of the past. She remembered the childhood of her children. Of the advent of Rodrigo. The reign. And the fall, most recent. And the death of ...

She could not say it, either.

 She looked at him, thinking he would never know what had happened. Before.

He would never utterly know his mother, uncles or grandfather.

Basically, it was better. He would never be a real Borgia. And that was the best thing she could wish him.

\- Love your mother, she asked. That's all you gotta do. Enjoy her presence.

 

Now Vanozza was gone. He would probably never see her again. And again he watched over his mother.

Yet today, he had a problem. And he had absolutely need to talk to someone.

He had thought of his older brother Hercules, but abandoned the idea. He liked Hercules, only a year older than him, but ... Hercules would not have solution. And for his father, he barely saw him. His nurse? She would not help him in any way.

He thought of his cousin, Lucrezia, aged one year older than him. He loved her madly. She could not help him too, but it would have relieved him so much to talk to her ...

 

So why not his mother? She would answer his questions.

 

\- What's wrong, Hippolytus ?, repeated the melodious voice.

 

The boy shook his head, out of his thoughts.

\- I ... I have a problem, mother. I ... I want to tell you.

His mother had a sweet smile and replied:

\- Come with me.

Her son behind her, she went to her apartment. They arrived in her antechamber, which she used as a sitting room, and told him to sit down. She sat opposite to him and gently asked:

\- Then, my son? What is this problem you have ?

 

Lord, it is wrong to have a favorite child. She knew that too well. A ray of light crossed her mind. "Juan ...", she thought with amusement. She had hated him. Today, what does she would not do to see him again. To see them all. To see him ... Him. The other.

Juan had been the favorite of their father. And today... Hippolyte was her favorite son. The eldest, Hercules, she loved him, yes, God knew she loved him.

But Hippolyte ... Everything about him ... His gestures, his features ... All ... ... It was Him. The other .

 

Throbbing pain across her chest. She was now accustomed to pain. It never would go away. It was so.

\- Mother, the boy began, I ...

\- Be more assured, my son, 'she interrupted. What do you fear?

This nobility in her words. He looked up admiringly, took his courage, and said:

\- I heard my father talking yesterday with my uncle, the other Hippolyte. I know that we should not listen to conversations, but it was all within my reach ... I could not ignore it, especially as it concerned me. And…

\- And ?, asked his mother.

\- And my father wants me to take the cloth.

\- You are the second son, Hippolytus, she remarked.

\- There is nothing I want less, the boy whimpered. I want to fight, mother.

 

Her heart sank at these words. She recognized them all too well. He was made prelate when he wanted to fight. Her heart screamed in pain.

 

Yet it was this time normal. Hippolyte was the second, destined to enter orders. It was thus.

She watched for a moment the beseeching face of her son.

Pain in the chest. She was tired of dying so, slowly.

She was going to help her son, to his memory.

\- I will do my best for you, little prince. If this is what you want.

\- Oh... oh ! Thank you, mother!, he cried.

She replied with a smile.

 

Hippolytus's face suddenly became more serious. He was trying to sound out the eyes of his mother. Like ... like ...

"A very dear person to her heart ...", said Vanozza. Who could it be? Her father, the Pope? Probably not, it must have made her very sad but it was in the order of things ...

Who else ? He was unfamiliar with the family of his mother. Everybody was silent about them.

He tried to remember ... He has three maternal uncles. Hmm ... The only name he remembered ...

Cesare.

The father of his cousin Lucrezia. His mother had adopted her niece. Why ? She was not forced. Not at all, even. Lucrezia was a bastard. Why then ?

Perhaps because she had lovedher brother a lot ... Maybe. But that was unlikely. It was her brother, that's all.

 

He walked away without a word, just his thoughts. His mother looked at him and sighed.

 

Lucrezia Borgia was suffering. With every fiber of her body. She saw that her son was trying to guess why.

How could she tell him that she was really dead March 12, 1507?

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

She saw the worst moment of her life in thought.

 

Alfonso d'Este, her husband entered. Worried, and he seemed quite crestfallen.

\- Madam, a very terrible news ...

 

She had felt. Had understood. She was confined to bed for the night. She had not been able to swallow anything, she was not well.

\- What is it ?

\- This is your brother. Death, my lady.

She looked at him blankly. Truth does not immediately crashed into her mind. Dead, her brother? What brother? Gioffre? Poor Gioffre! That was a long time that ...

It was not Gioffre.

"... The Duke of Valentinois," she read without actually reading it, in the letter he held in his hand.

She looked at him, laughed nervously. Him ? Dead? Good heavens, no. Impossible.

He promised her to survive. For her.

To the anxious glow she had read in her husband's eyes, she saw that sh seemed to be mad.

\- Your brother... Cesare Borgia.

The words do not reach her right away. She kept her eyes open. Coldly open. Without moving.

 

And she stayed a whole day as well. Without realizing. Without feeling.

Her husband, considerate, not understanding well, stayed close to her.

And that night, suddenly, after having stopped any movement for hours, she got up, ran, ran up breathlessly to the gardens.

 

Looking up at the sky, she had cried.

Screamed.

 

It was not a scream. It was inhuman. Her husband will always remember. As if someone painfully tore her a part of herself.

 

She had felt the footsteps behind her. A person brave enough to approach her?

\- It's only me, my lady. Your maid.

She did not answer, did not hear anything. She was with him. She uttered only by a miracle:

\- A... knife.

\- I don't have one, my lady, just replied the girl. But why?

Lucrezia did not want to answer. No one will ever understand.

\- Let me join... him..., she whispered with tears in her voice.

The girl was smart. She thought at full speed. Forget. Forget that it was not just the sweet, good Duchess of Ferrara before her.

It was Lucrezia Borgia.

A woman accused of committing incest with her brother.

A horrible thing. Monstrous.

 

Yet before such despair, her heart sank.

\- You cannot, my lady. You must stay with us. What would we do? The people of Ferrara needs you.

 

Lucrezia didn't care about it. Her... people?

He was gone. Her half. Her love.

Her soulmate. And she was his.

 

Suddenly, she remembered everything.

 

Every moment she spent at his side. Her life had changed dramatically since she lived here. They were once again separated. She had to find him. She could not survive without him. Just imagine life without him made her laugh. It was impossible.

"Impossible love ... I am very much afraid they can become an addiction" he whispered in her ear.

She found in every part of her body the sensations experienced that night. Before the cradle of her baby. Giovanni. Dead, also dead after being separated from her. She wanted to forget.

They were in front of the cradle, as a young couple. He held her tightly in his arms. She felt his comforting power.

His arms. It was her refuge.

She took his hand. His beautiful, large and vigorous hand, which could be so sweet.

 

She could not live without his arms, his hands. She could not. Where will she go to take refuge ?

The memories are intertwined in her mind.

"- For I shall never love a husband as I love you, Cesare.

\- Whoever gets in the way of your happiness will meet my wrath  
\- You will be my husband... tonight.

\- And you'll be mine. "

 

She remembers everything. She feels everything again. She wants his arms around her, his lips on hers, his fingers on her body. She wants his love again, his insurance. She wants.

But Lucrezia Borgia had forgotten she was eight no longer. Her father was dead. It didn"t suffice to say just "I want".

The last memory resurfaced. The last letter he sent her.

"If I die, Lucrezia, you have to live for me."

 

He was dead. She had to live for him.

But she waas dead inside.

Who was she? Lucrezia Borgia. Despite his marriages, titles, dynasties ... She was still Borgia.

But, as well as only a Borgia can truly love a Borgia ... can a Borgia alone live without other Borgia?

She was alone now.

Lucrezia Borgia was dead. And the Duchess of Ferrara was born.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

She got up to go and look at the window. It overlooked the garden. Hippolyte was smiling. He seemed in lively conversation with his cousin Lucrezia.

Lucrezia ... The last daughter of Cesare. He had given her her own name.

Then she was her mother, somehow.

The daughter of Cesare was also her daughter. She had adopted her. And God, she loved this little girl, who looked like him. She also looks like her father. The same green eyes so beautiful. The same beautiful features.

And against all odds, since she was in truth only her aunt... the little girl had also inherited her golden curls.

This is what Cesare should have think when he named his new daughter Lucrezia. These little golden curls. Hers, the curls of his sister, which he loved so much. She remembered the feel of his hands through her hair. What a delight…

She lived only with memories.

 

She felt that her heart no longer beat. The voice that spoke, ordered, was not hers. The Borgia she was was imprisoned in the depths of herself.

 

She saw Lucrezia kiss Hippolytus on the cheek. Thus, the story would repeat itself indefinitely ... In the opposite direction. She had a son and he had a daughter. Fortunately for them, they were only cousins, leaving them future opportunities.

 

Finally, it was perhaps this that pushed Hippolytus to ask for her help. He wanted to marry his cousin. She sneered. Cesare Borgia's bastard. Her husband would never agree.

 

Yes, she had not even asked his reasons to her son, obsessed by the image of her brother in it. Cesare also was cardinal, and had killed their brother to be finally free of the red cloth. She shivered. Hippolyte would never do the same with Hercules, that was certain.

 

She squeezed the heavy pendant she was wearing. A small vial, she always wore on her.

After the death of Cesare (it was hard to say it, it seemed so inconsistent), she had managed to find Micheletto. Her brother's henchman, she could see, was desperate of his master's death, and he insisted for remain to her service.

 

The first mission that was entrusted to him was more than important, and dangerous. Steal Cesare's ashes, in the Vatican, in front of Della Rovere, Pope Julius II.

He accomplished the mission wonderful. And as she kept the ashes in a beautiful box, at the bottom of her desk, she had picked up a small part, placed inside the vial that hung from her neck.

 

With a sigh she sat down again, and get her brother's portrait and a bundle of letters, from a box next to her bed. His letters. She pressed harder the vial.

"Only a Borgia can love a Borgia.

Cesare. Take me with you, my love. I need your arms.

My brother. Look how our children love each other. It is so beautiful."

 

The word "brother" had never lost its meaning for her. She had always seen him as a brother. She was his soulmate.

 

She could no longer survive. But the end was near, she felt. She looked at the two children out. So carelessly. Like them once.


End file.
